only a flesh wound
by Anera527
Summary: Only Sherlock Holmes would manage to split his lip open by dropping a can of bug spray from a cabinet.


"What the bloody hell did you do, Sherlock?"

"I will assume," the detective stated thickly, "that it is merely your surprise making you question this, because it is painfully obvious. The can sitting at its angle against the stove can only signify it fell from the top of the cabinet; aligned with the blood splatters arrayed at my feet can only mean that I-"

"Yeah, I can guess, now shut up and let me see." Placing his squirming daughter down with her stuffed lamb, John then crouched in front of Sherlock and grabbed hold of the kitchen towel the detective was bracing against his bottom lip. "You'll tear your lip open even more if you keep talking." He hummed unhappily deep in his throat. "Needs stitches."

"Undoubtedly, John," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "The depth of the cut and its width coincided with how long it's been bleeding can only signify such a consequence." He was silent for a moment as John had him grab hold of the cloth again, and when he spoke again his voice was slightly muffled. "Fascinating. I clearly haven't done nearly enough experiments on the human lips, is it normal for them to bleed this much?"

"Yes, it is, Sherlock, and I would appreciate it if you would stop talking. There are plenty of blood vessels in the lip alone, slicing them open is going to cause a bit of a mess. Keep pressure on it until we get you to the hospital."

"_Hospital_? You're a doctor!"

"And does this flat look like a sterile area to you, Sherlock? I'm not going to stitch your lip up where you have mold experiments and decaying body parts three feet away."

"Bathroom."

"You have intestines hanging from the curtain railings. _Still_ not sterile." John shot Sherlock his fiercest I'm-a-bloody-doctor-and-you-will-listen-to-me glare when the detective opened his mouth. "Shut it." Behind him, Rosie let out a shriek of thrilled curiosity and he cursed softly as he turned to her. "No, Rosie darling- don't touch that-" He managed to pick her up just before her plump hands could slap themselves into the little puddles of Sherlock's blood, and Sherlock couldn't quite school his expression into feigned disinterest before John faced him again. The fond exasperation in his expression as he shook his head took the sting out his next words. "My daughter's already interested in the macabre. I'm blaming you, Sherlock." He rolled his eyes when Sherlock's expression shifted quizzically. "No, I'm not going to take this as a chance to show her how to sew stitches, you berk. Come on, we've got a doctor to go see."

~/~/~/~/~

"I refuse to ever go to such an incompetent imbecile again. Make a note of this, John, so the next time this happens you remember."

Humor tugged at John's mouth as he rummaged through the kitchen, preparing two cups of tea. "Doctor Rayner was hardly incompetent, Sherlock-"

"He put the stitches in crooked!"

"Well, whose fault is that? He'd told you to stay as still as possible, I don't think he expected a man over thirty to fidget like a three-year-old."

"But- _crooked_, John!"

The barest whine in Sherlock's tone made John chuckle- perhaps a mistake, since he knew how prickly the detective's pride could be, but he couldn't help himself. "Then I'm sure you'll make sure to never drop another can from the cabinet again, yeah?"

"You don't hide your amusement well, John," Sherlock's voice drifted to him. "Finish preparing the tea so I can have my painkillers."

"Would it kill you to tack a please at the end of that sentence?" It was a rhetorical question; John was already rounding the corner of the kitchen and heading towards the sofa. Sherlock sat with Rosie on his lap, letting her feel the thin bones of his fingers, and he accepted the cup and the painkillers with a grateful expression that was answer enough. John was halfway through his own before he spoke up again. "Do I even want to know why you had a can of Off Spray?"

"Experiment. I wanted to find out which insect repellent worked best."

"Of course you did." The thin black string of the stitches stood out against the pale flesh of Sherlock's lip, still a bit swollen from earlier. John was fully sympathetic to his friend's pain- the mouth seemed particularly sensitive to hurts, and Sherlock had had his sliced open by the sharp edge of metal- but remembering the detective's earlier complaint made him grin behind the rim of his cup again.

Of course, Sherlock noticed it. "What? What is it?"

"You're right, you know. They really _are_ crooked."


End file.
